


Time is Limited; Love is Precious

by clarapaget



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Angsty-ish, M/M, Sick Eliot, Teddy doesn't understand what's happening, Worried Quentin, kind of sick-fic, writing this at 12am is a bad idea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-31
Updated: 2019-03-31
Packaged: 2019-12-29 01:55:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18297920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clarapaget/pseuds/clarapaget
Summary: Eliot gets sick. It's been a few months since Arielle passed of a similar sickness and Quentin is on edge.





	Time is Limited; Love is Precious

**Author's Note:**

> Haha. :)

Arielle died a few months ago and Quentin was still mourning. Every other morning when he awoke, he went to leave some flowers beside her grave, or simply stare at the sullen gravestone, tears in his eyes. Sometimes he took Teddy with him; she was his mother and he asks where she’s gone. Eliot had had to sit down with Teddy and tell him Arielle wouldn’t be returning; Quentin couldn’t do it himself or he feared his heart would shatter.

This morning, after Quentin returned from visiting Arielle (he was beginning to fall out of the habit. It had been four days since he’d gone to see her), he noticed Eliot remained in bed.Eliot usually slept in a little longer than Quentin, so he looked for their son. Teddy, awake and beaming, was outside, playing in the dirt with a wooden toy that Arielle had carved for him one spring day. 

“Hey, buddy,” Quentin said softly, sitting down beside Quentin. “Hungry?”

Teddy looked up from his toy and rushed to hug his father. Quentin, half-startled caught him with a gentle smile. 

“Yes!” Teddy squealed. “Can we wake Dad and eat together?” 

“Of course,” Quentin replied and he stood, scooping up Teddy with him. He carried his son inside the cottage and dropped him onto the bed. Teddy scrambled to Eliot, tugging on the covers and Eliot’s thin shirt. 

Quentin reminisced in this stolen moment. The cottage was chilly and quite tight inside. The family used it mainly for sleeping and did everything else outside in the warmth of the day. And when winter in Fillory came, they bundled up, continuing to work on the mosaic no matter what. Teddy would help his dads sometimes, but Eliot and Quentin preferred he live like a normal kid. Since the two were often busy, they hired a tutor (paid in plums and peaches) to come teach and work with Teddy. Before Arielle died, though, she was the one who helped in raising Teddy most. Of course, all three parents played a major role in bringing up their son, but she always had the most time on her hands.

Eliot turned, waking slowly. “Morning Teddy,” Eliot murmured. He sat up, a stream of light falling through the window and onto his face, illuminating him. Dark circles swooped beneath his eyes and he blinked away the tiredness that swarmed them. Eliot spots Quentin lurking a few inches from the bed. “Hey honey.”

Quentin smiled. Arielle and Eliot both found the sweetest of pet-names for him. It became a sort of competition between them at one point. They both always won, Quentin could never pick; they both loved him so much. 

And then Eliot coughed, his hand moving into a fist and covering his mouth. It stretched on for a minute, even Teddy backed away. 

“I’m fine,” Eliot choked out. “I’m fine. Just morning coughs, that’s all.” He crawled out of bed, ushering Teddy off too. Standing, arms stretching up, sideways, Eliot embraced Quentin and held him for a minute.

“I’m hungry,” Teddy whined. Eliot laughed a little, and Quentin pickeds up a food basket, dragging the family outside, into the sunlight. It was bright, meeting Quentin’s eyes with an incriminating glare; he moved his hand up to shield himself. 

There’s more furniture outside the cottage than inside. A table, unstable and tilting, is pushed off to the side of the mosaic, which gleams in fading color, though haunts Quentin; haunts Eliot too. On the other side of the mosaic is couch looking bed with blankets haphazardly thrown about. Teddy often naps there, sometimes with Quentin, other times with Eliot. 

Teddy wanders over to the table, pulling his fathers with him. There are benches circling the table and Teddy takes an eager seat. Quentin sets the food basket on the table and pulls out some bread, bottled milk, and uncooked sausages. As Eliot is the better cook of the two, he sighed, taking the meat to warm it up.

Another cough attack overwhelmed Eliot as he’s stands over a newly lit fire. He nearly dropped the frying pan as he doubled over. Carefully, however, Eliot set down the pan and moved to the side. Quentin, who was pouring Teddy a cup of milk, rushed to Eliot’s side.

“Are you okay?” Quentin asked, worrisome. His hand moved swiftly down Eliot’s back and held him steady. Eliot coughed again, moving back into Quentin’s hand, Quentin’s arms for balance. “Are you okay?” Quentin repeated. 

Eliot merely nodded, steadying himself and once again standing, straightening his back. Teddy looked on from the table, confused and intrigued. He went back to heating up the sausages, and once done, brought them over to the table. With chubby hands, Teddy greedily grabbed for two and began shoveling them into his hungry mouth.

“Slow down, wild child,” Eliot said. “There’s plenty to go around.” 

It was almost a perfect harmony for them, this breakfast, a regular, every morning breakfast. Although, Quentin continually searched Eliot’s face with a nervous curiosity. Coughs were mundane, but they brought Quentin into a frenzy. Arielle’s fatal sickness had started out as morning cough and grew drastically into something much worse. That’s where Quentin’s mind opted to wander to. The panic that grew inside him unfurled, rocking his brain as he tried to eat his breakfast; it become too much.

“El… take the day off. Rest in bed, please,” Quentin begged, reaching over the table to grab Eliot’s free hand. Teddy had fled the table and returned to his wooden toy. He wasn’t as worried as Quentin was, but all the same he still kept an eye on his fathers.

“Why? I’m fine, babe,” Eliot said. “It’s only a cough.”

“It was only a cough when Arielle died,” Quentin whispered. It hurt to say her name out-loud. He thought of her all the time, missed her, cried for her, but it still hurt to much to breathe her name, drop it at the end of a sentence, put it into reality. “I want you rest. I’m not taking this lightly. Please, El.”

Eliot nodded, understanding the weight of the emotional turmoil behind Quentin’s words. “Will do, worry-wart.” He rubbed Quentin’s knuckles with his thumb assuringly, with a sweet affirmation behind it.

Quentin watched Eliot head back into the cottage, still worrying, still without smile, before he returned to finishing his breakfast. With hope, Quentin would wait for Eliot’s sudden sickness to pass.


End file.
